


A Light on the Water

by LRebecca



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Gen, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Hurt/Comfort, Nature Magic, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-08-19 10:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20208082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LRebecca/pseuds/LRebecca
Summary: Yavanna looked unbearably sad, “Could you have destroyed it? If you had known when you first picked it up. Could you have done as Frodo so very nearly did?”“No, I couldn’t have, not then. But I can now. If you give me another chance, I will.”“You surprise us, Bilbo Baggins. The fate of Middle Earth rests on your shoulders.”And with that, Bilbo died.(Things go a little differently this time.)





	1. Daffodil

There is a story about a hole in the ground, a ring and a stone - a story that Bilbo had almost forgotten. Now, though, in the ship set for the West, the salt-sea air flurried his old brain into quite the tizzy. Knees creaking, he stood.

“Are you alright, Uncle?”

Oh, Frodo, Frodo. Always such a pensieve boy, never quite fit in with the Hobbiton folk. Then again, he never had either.

“Quite, lad. I think I’ll stretch my legs.”

His nephew nodded and closed his eyes. Bilbo watched him for a moment, in the still of their little bunk. Before that whole mess, Frodo wouldn’t have missed out on watching the waves for the sweetest apples outside of West Farthing. It would be a long time before he got his curious little blue-eyed mischief-maker back. Already, though, Bilbo knew that old and familiar ache was fading from them both. Frodo hadn’t reached his shoulder to massage that old wound since they cast off and Bilbo’s hands had remained firmly out of his vest pocket. Leaning on his cane, Bilbo took the stairs up to the deck. He’d thought he might share a pipe with Gandalf or get a story from one of the elves but, to his surprise, the ship seemed deserted. The water and air were the stillest he’d ever seen, cast grey by the moonlight, he felt suspended inside a single second. Before he could take another step, his old hobbit eyes brought a figure into focus. 

By the bow stood the Lady of the Wide Earth. 

It was strange how he knew this, for she appeared to him much like an ordinary hobbit. Brown skin, a mess of curls, green vest and trousers embroidered with golden flowers, hands clasped together. She turned to him and smiled gently, wrinkles bunching up at her eyes. The only thing a little out of the ordinary was the veritable garden at her feet, where only plain, damp wood had been before. Bilbo’s father’s quiet words washed over him then, from their many hours spent crouching in the fields, with Bilbo much more interested in putting worms in his pockets than learning the meanings of plants. Slim, purple hyssop (sacrifice, purity) waved at him by her hairy shins; lavender rose looked black in the moonlight (love, I love you, I love you at first sight); strong-rooted black-eyed Susan (justice, action, you will prevail); bushels of fern poking up between her bare toes (sincerity, humility, magic, bonds of love); sunset dyed zinnia (thoughts of absent friends, you must endure, goodness); daffodils, thriving (devotion, rebirth). 

“Is it that time, already? I thought we’d only just set sail.”

“Perhaps.” Yavanna said. Her voice reminded him of his mother. Smiling, she reached for him and held his gnarled, tree-root hands in hers. “How  _ are _ you, Bilbo Baggins?”

The pain and slowness he’d felt since he gave up the ring and put a stop to his rather long youth rose and fell away like the air, “Quite put out.”

When he looked into her eyes, he saw understanding, “You’re responsible for a lot of very Big things, Bilbo. Perhaps the way things went were the way they were always meant to go.”

He felt tears run down his cheeks, “You know, I don’t believe that. No, not at all. Thorin and Smaug and Azog - it was just too good a story to have ended the way it did. All the fauntlings I’ve told it to were quite put out with it. Thorin was buried with that blasted rock. And Gollum and that  _ ring - _ ”

She smiled sadly, “The One Ring is gone, dear hobbit. Sauron cannot rise without it. The danger is gone.”

“But all those lives. All that green. The Orcs burned and burned away at everything that was good. Nothing looks the same anymore.”

Yavanna sighed, digging her toes deeper into her bed of flowers,“This Age is a peaceful one.”

Bilbo let their hands drop, “It is a broken one. Not even the Shire remained untouched by those dreadful goings-on.”

Bilbo didn’t know much about Big things. He knew about how to make honey cakes, how to see to a good harvest, the proper way to draw a map, what kinds of food to take on an adventure, how to talk yourself out of being eaten by trolls. But Big things - fate and time and Valar. He’d never spared the Big stuff much of a thought, like most hobbits, preferring things he could see and measure and draw and eat.

His Lady began, “If you could return -”

Bilbo cut her off (Bungo would have thwacked him with a wooden spoon for that), “I think you’ve already made up your mind. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

She looked at him for a moment, warm black eyes roving over every inch of him. Bilbo felt rather embarrassed. He hadn’t been able to brush his feet hair properly for months, and he certainly wasn’t about to ask the elves to do it for him. 

“The greatest sacrifice, Bilbo Baggins, will be yours. To carry the Ring, in the way that your cousin has done, and then to destroy it, will break you completely.”

Bilbo waved her away, “Oh, pish. Quite enough of that. I’m well aware of the risks.”

Yavanna looked unbearably sad, “Could you have destroyed it? If you had known when you first picked it up. Could you have done as Frodo so very nearly did?”

“No, I couldn’t have, not then. But I can now. If you give me another chance, I will.”

“You surprise us, Bilbo Baggins. The fate of Middle Earth rests on your shoulders.”

And with that, Bilbo died.


	2. Yellow Rose

Bilbo did not even have to open his eyes to know that he was young again. To wake without pain was a luxury he’d wasted pottering around in his smial, bent over his desk, taking walking holidays to Bree. Why hadn’t he ran? Why hadn’t he leapt and danced and darted around like a fauntling when he’d had the chance? His achy knees, crooked spine and laboured breath were wonderfully absent. He took a moment, to tense and relax every inch of his body and brush against his old Bag End sheets. They’d been motheaten when he’d returned from the mountains but now they smelled of fresh air and books. A laugh burst from him and he leapt from his bed, eyes snapping open to take in the fresh morning air pouring in from his yellow windows, turning his world golden. He ran to his little mirror. White hair turned thick and brown, tummy less round (but still very respectable, of course), sun-brown skin, eyes bright with tears. He laughed again and did a little jig.

He’d quite expected to be spirited back to the moment Gandalf had told him good morning, or to the goblin caves with Gollum but Bilbo found he couldn’t place the date at all. He looked out the window. Spring in the Shire was a wonderful, bountiful thing. The Shire had ceased being his home for many years but he found his heart always near burst in fondness for green, rolling hills and round doors and the smell of Old Toby smoke twisting and curling into the sky. Gently pushing his bedroom door open, he popped his head out. 

“Hello?” he called, and was surprised by the smoothness of the sound, like the clear ring of a bell. The loss of a youthful voice is not something one regularly thinks about. Still, no one was there to witness it. His smial was empty. 

And yet. 

His mother’s glory box was utterly _ caked  _ in mud, his wood floors were scuffed and, as he sprinted into his kitchen, he found the pantry empty but for a single bunch of carrots. The Company had been here! And they had left without him. Again.

“Bother!” Bilbo ran back to his bedroom and, surely, there on his writing desk was the contract. He snatched it up, scrawling his name at the bottom and began sprinting from room to room. He filled his old knapsack with clothes, spices, a winter coat, a little pot of Hamfast’s honey. Only barely remembering to lock the door behind him, Bilbo burst forth into the sunshine. He trampled over his cabbages, heaved himself over the fence and bowled down the hill, water skin flapping against his ribs. The little dirt road into the wood was paved with butter-yellow roses (joy, friendship, a new beginning), some as tall as his belt, a good omen for certain. He slowed to a jog, panting. He’d almost forgotten how soft he’d been before the journey. A year of meagre road rations of whatever Kili could shoot down had seen to that. 

Anxiety built in his chest for every minute he went without seeing the dwarves but he stuck to the hoof-beaten path, craning his neck to see through the thick tree line, past twists and turns. Bilbo heard them before he saw them and jerked to a stop. That almost forgotten sound. Armour clinking, hooves clacking, loud and alive voices laughing and arguing. He clenched and unclenched his fists and begged himself not to cry. He was one hundred and thirty one years old and he’d already made a terrible impression on the dwarves. Twice. 

Taking a deep, bracing breath, Bilbo hurtled forward until a long line of adventurers came into view.

“WAIT!” The word seemed wrenched from him by an unkind hand and hurt his chest.

The procession of ponies clattered to a stop. Bilbo slowed to a walk on weak, shaky legs, “I’ve signed it!”

Oh, Yavanna, they were looking at him. His old friends, all so young and alive. He couldn’t look at them, he went straight to Balin’s horse and handed him the contract, staring at some point above his bushy eyebrows.

“This all seems to be in order, laddie. Welcome, Master Baggins, to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.” said Balin and Bilbo could hear the smile in his voice as a cheer came up from the rest of them. 

“Get him on a pony.” called Thorin from the lead. Bilbo couldn’t make his body turn to look. Bother! If he couldn’t even gather the strength to act normally around his old friends, how on Middle Earth was he supposed to destroy the One?

_ Speak _ , Bilbo, you old fool! “Oh, I’m really quite alright walking.”

But, just like last time, he found himself hoisted up onto Myrtle. Someone slapped him on the back, laughing, before the dwarves’ gruff voices rose up again (“ _ Come on, Nori, pay up, go on! _ ”). Bilbo leaned forward to touch his nose to Myrtle’s mane and breathed in, she smelled sweet and dusty like a summer shower. He said hello for a moment, begging himself for some composure, before a familiar figure drew pace with him. He sighed and turned to the wizard he’d sailed off with not a day ago.

“What have you gotten me into, Gandalf?”

The Wizard chuckled, and wasn’t it odd to see him robed in grey instead of white, “My dear fellow, I have the utmost confidence in you.”

Gandalf held up a hand to catch a pocket of coins thrown from Nori, he jangled it at Bilbo, “See?”

Rolling his eyes, but grinning all the same, Bilbo looked forward at Balin, Dwalin and Thorin. After they reclaimed Erebor, Balin had been a semi-regular visitor at Bag End, dropping in every decade or so on his travels to other settlements for trade negotiations. Between those rare visits, he’d kept in correspondence with most of his dwarf friends but they were often busy and Bilbo was often uninteresting. Sadly, he was not even sure who of the Company was still living when he passed. That the dwarves had attempted to reclaim Moria, and failed so spectacularly, was dreadful news he received in a letter from Gandalf as his nephew travelled to Mordor. He’d gone into quite the depression after hearing of Balin’s death but the elves from the halls of Rivendell had been invaluable friends. He missed them.

“Home is behind, the world is ahead.” said Bilbo, watching little silver beads swing among Thorin’s thick braids.

“Quite right.” said Gandalf, nodding, and then he paused,“Bilbo, my friend, are you still wearing your pyjamas?”

Ears red, he nudged Myrtle quicker, and left the batty wizard chuckling merrily to himself.

At least he’d remembered his handkerchief this time around.


	3. Basil

After riding for the day, dusk settled in on them like a warm blanket. They made camp. Bilbo tried to make himself useful by collecting dry twigs for kindling, but still felt a kind of starstruck shyness that made his fingers clumsy. Bombur had gently waved him away after the third time he’d knocked over their little wood stack. He retreated to the side of the cave where he could have a clear view of the surrounding grass and trees. There were orcs out there, after all. He’d managed to change out of his pyjamas and into his proper travelling clothes, cropped brown trousers, cotton undershirt and overshirt, cow leather jacket hobbitishly embroidered with flowers and woodland animals at the cuffs and back. In his rush to pack Bilbo had quite forgotten his sheepskin winter jacket. Not important now, but Bilbo reminded himself to pick up another before Mirkwood. 

Other than brief, essential words in passing, the Company had politely ignored him. Dwarves were a private and suspicious people. Not, Bilbo thought, by nature, but by necessity. These dwarves in particular spent the last fifty or so years on the road. Men had treated them badly, as men so often treat things they refuse to understand. The dwarves hadn’t trusted him until he’d proven himself worthy of that trust and so far, Bilbo hadn’t even prepared them a proper supper or had beds made ready when they’d come out of their way to meet him. To see his old friends look at him like a stranger was utterly horrid. Their separation was brought into sharp focus at little, unexpected times that he wouldn’t have even thought of. Which made it so much more jarring. Like when he’d had to make himself not tell off Nori for teasing Ori or smile up at Bofur when he laughed at a joke Bifur made.  _ Blend in _ , Bilbo told himself.  _ These people don’t know you yet _ .  _ It doesn’t matter if they don’t like you _ . _ It doesn’t mean anything _ .  _ You’re here to save them not make friends _ .

The mild weather wouldn’t last for much longer so Bilbo decided he would make the most of it by topping up their food stores. They were still close enough to the Shire that Bilbo was familiar with the growing conditions and native species, so after briefly letting Gandalf know he’d be back soon, he hitched one of his herb bags over a shoulder and went rummaging through the brush. Luck was on his side, it seemed, because not 2 minutes from the cave mouth were bulbous, brown mushrooms. Delighted, he popped a few handfuls in his bag, mumbling a tune he’d heard the elves sing on good and bright days. A little more foraging, digging his toes in the dirt to feel the deep hum of the Earth, and Bilbo was root-led to small and tart wild strawberries. Bilbo chose the nicest, careful that he didn’t pick the plant dry. Last on his little venture was some fragrant rosemary. Kneeling down, he stuck his hands in the soil and breathed in the Earth for a moment before turning back to camp. 

A loud scream cut through the air.

Bilbo stuttered to a stop, breath caught. 

Just orcs. Far away. Walking faster now, he almost didn’t notice a little blackbird circling him until it fell on his shoulder. He looked at it, “Hello.”

She shook her wings. In her yellow beak was a sprig of basil (good wishes, good will, good luck).

“Oh, hello! A message from Yavanna?” He asked, reaching a hand up to take the herb and gently rub her chest.

The bird nudged his cheek, chirping.

“Thank you very much.”

Bilbo munched on the basil (well, it wasn’t enough to share with the Company, was it?) and waited for the blackbird to set off again on her travels but she seemed perfectly content to sit on his shoulder, pecking at his curls.

The camp was near silent when he returned, the dwarves enraptured, only the crackling of the fire and Balin’s storybook voice filled the air. 

“Thrain, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us. That is when I saw him: a young dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield. Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken. Our forces rallied and drove the orcs back. Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast, no song, that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived. And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one I could call King.”

Gandalf said quietly, “You missed a rather good story, there, Bilbo.”

“No, I heard it.” said Bilbo, then, louder, “What happened to the Pale Orc?”

Thorin, from his place at the mouth, turned and went to his bedroll without looking at anyone. “He slunk back into the hole from whence he came,” he said fiercely, “that filth died from his wounds long ago.”

Oh, if only.

Bilbo went to the fire, to Bombur poking the stack. 

“Master Bombur, I wondered if these would be useful?” he said, holding his bag open.

Bombur peered in, surprised, “Oh! Quite useful, Master Baggins! Mushrooms for the soup, and I can dry some for later, and strawberries for afters! I’ve been looking out for something to eat, wherever did you find these?”

“Among those trees, a few minutes that way. These lands are a little protective of themselves, they don’t tend to reveal much to outsiders.”

Bombur looked confused, but nodded. He pointed to the visitor on Bilbo’s shoulder, “Oh, and is that a guardian of the land? Will we be cursed?”

Bombur smiled to show he was teasing, red beard framing rosy cheeks.

Bilbo chuckled, “No, no, I rather think she’s merely tired of flying and would like a nice sit down by a warm fire.”

“She’d got the right idea, I think, Master Baggins.”

“Do call me Bilbo.”

“And call me Bombur. Take your bird’s advice and rest for tomorrow. Thank you for these, Bilbo.”

Smiling, he went to his bedroll, noticing a few dwarven eyes watching him go, ice blue ones in particular. Fiddling with his bag to untwist the straps, Bilbo almost didn’t notice the three youngest members of the Company coming to settle near his mat. 

“You have a bird on your shoulder” said Kili bluntly.

Bilbo took off his jacket and arranged it as a blanket. The blackbird hopped down and settled on top of his bag, “Oh yes, I think she’s staying for a little while.”

His visitors stared at the bird. While they were distracted, Bilbo swallowed the lump in his throat. Kili and Fili. Alive and curious and wonderful.

“Do hobbits just do that, then?”

“Do what, Master Fili?”

Fili tilted his head, “Attract little animals.”

“Like a Princess in a storybook!” said Ori, excited, and then looked embarrassed that he’d spoken at all.

Bilbo smiled at him, “Sometimes, I suppose. I doubt woodland creatures feel very threatened by us hobbits.”

Kili flopped onto his side, drawing shapes in the dirt absently, “Would you tell us about hobbits, Master Baggins?”

Clearly, Bilbo reaching out to Bombur had made them a little less wary.

“Do call me Bilbo. As for hobbits, well, we’re rather concerned with flowers.”

“Flowers?” asked Fili, brow furrowed.

Bilbo nodded, “Oh, yes. If you’d like to court someone, a bundle of humble pansies might do to declare your intention. If you wish to express condolences, purple hyacinths are very meaningful. Even an invitation to a party might be accomplished by a parcel of parsley, but I think most hobbits like a nicely-written letter just as much.”

“What an odd little species, to be so concerned with, well,” Fili hesitated, “impractical things.”

Ori looked scandalised. Bilbo just nodded.

“It might seem that way and, certainly, hobbits can often be frivolous and fussy but I wouldn’t call them impractical. They don’t care much for things of a higher order, great wealth or power. A hobbit, above all, values a good meal, a nice garden and pleasant company.”

Kili grinned at him, “Are we a pleasant Company then, Mister Boggins?”

“No, you’re quite horrible. Especially if you keep calling me ‘Boggins’.”

“I didn’t mean to offend,” said Fili quickly, “It’s just that we've never had any time to appreciate any of that stuff.”

Bilbo waved him away.

“You say ‘they’.” said Ori hesitantly, “You look like a hobbit.”

“Got a little dwarf in you, have you, Mister Boggins?” said Kili.

“If I did, I’d kindly ask him to leave.” Bilbo sniffed, “No, I’ve always been something of an oddity among Shirefolk.”

“No wonder.” He turned to Fili, “Did you see the looks on Mister Boggins’ neighbours’ faces when we went straight for his door!”

Oh, dear. Poor Hamfast must have been quite concerned. “Oh, yes, they’ll be calling me Mad Baggins in no time.”

“Mad Baggins!” they hooted, delighted at the thought of button-down, faint on the doorstep, far too concerned with the dishes Boggins being considered one of the more devilish of a quiet, sleepy, flower-sniffing species.

  
Bilbo smiled to himself.  _ Just you wait _ .


	4. Goldenrod

“Here, do us a favour and take these to the lads?” asked Bofur hurriedly, shoving two bowls into Bilbo’s chest before jogging over to Bombur, who was shortly about to sit in Gloin’s stew. He stood still for a moment, staring ahead blankly. His first order of business: Bert, Bill and Tom. Heart beating staccato, Bilbo went into the dark. The woods were sparse enough to see ferritish figures bounding along the grass, backlit by the moonlight. Even though Bilbo knew the only danger close by were the trolls, and that the only creatures surrounding him were dwarves and rabbits and other such beings, he couldn’t help but flinch at every crack or whisper in the underbrush.

A little ways in, to a patch of lush grass where they had tethered their ponies, stood Fili and Kili.

“See something, boys?” asked Bilbo and hoped he sounded convincingly nonchalant.

“I see fourteen ponies.” said Kili, biting his lip.

“Right.” he said patiently.

“Only,” Fili looked pained, “there are supposed to be sixteen. Daisy and Bungo are missing”

Bilbo pursed his lips, nodding, “And you were supposed to be watching them?”

The brothers looked at him mournfully.

“Alright.” he said, placing their stew on a log and dusting off his hands, “Let’s sort this out, shall we?”

Bilbo led the way, with the slightly baffled brothers in tow, all three of them taking note of the uprooted trees and broken branches but silently agreeing not to mention it. It wasn’t too long before the sound of gruff voices carried over the air and the ashy smell of a fire reached them. Slowing, Bilbo ducked down and made his footsteps lighter until they were just a whisper on the fronds. Through the leafy arbour, they saw them. Three great, grey, sluggish creatures with skin like Oliphants and teeth like a crenellated parapet. Bert spoke, “Mutton yesterday, mutton today and, blimey, if it don’t look like mutton again tomorrow.”

“Trolls.” said Bilbo, turning his head to see the half-excited, half-disgusted expressions on the dwarves’ faces. As the trolls argued and grumbled, Fili pointed to the ponies who were shifting and braying, pushing against the tall fence that held them in.

“Why don’t you burgle them back?” Kili whispered.

“I couldn’t do that! Have you seen the size of them?” hissed Bilbo, “Look. What I  _ can _ do is keep the beasts occupied until dawn.”

Fili and Kili looked at each other and back to him, “What happens at dawn?”

Bilbo smiled grimly, “They turn to stone.”

“My guts are grumblin’,” growled Tom, “I need flesh! Flesh!”

“You two wait here,” said Bilbo, “Be quiet and don’t put yourselves in danger.” 

“Hang on! What are you going to do?”

Bilbo twitched his nose and sighed. No time like the present. Straightening his back, Bilbo stepped out from behind the tree trunk and strolled into the clearing.

“Good day.” said Bilbo. 

A muffled shout of alarm behind him was quickly stifled. Bert’s hand stalled, wooden spoon dripping greenish sludge. When it was clear he wasn’t going to get a polite greeting in return, Bilbo stepped closer, “I wondered if you might like to eat me.”

Bert reared back and knuckled his forehead. The three trolls dithered.

“Well? I don’t have all day. There’s plenty of other creatures out there who’d trip over their feet for this opportunity.”

Bill crouched down hesitantly and gave a big sniff, wafting the air for better judgement,“I fink he’s a dwarf.”

Tom snorted, “Dwarves are ‘airy. Does ‘e look ‘airy to you?”

“Well, maybe this one’s a baby,” said Bill, sounding rather superior and crossing his arms, “didn’t fink o’ that now, did yeh?”

Bilbo cleared his throat, rocking on his heels, “I’m a hobbit, thank you muchly.”

Bert examined him further, “What’s an ‘obbit supposed to taste like, then?”

“Very good.” he said, “Sweet and juicy. Much better than those nags.”

The trolls seemed to contemplate this, as far as trolls are capable of contemplating things.

“And… you  _ want _ us to eat you?” asked Tom.

“Yes, please.” he nodded encouragingly, trying to look tasty, “A hobbit’s only goal in life is to be cooked well and eaten by folks such as yourselves.”

Bert humphed, “Alright, then.” and before Bilbo could move, brought an arm forward and snatched him up. 

Bilbo was moved dangerously close to the fire before he spoke up, “Ah! I said cooked  _ well _ . I would like to be marinated for at least a little while before you roast me. It’ll make me wonderfully tender.”

Bert groaned.

“He did offer ‘imself up.” said Bill plainly, “Least we could do is be respectful.”

“Oh, all right.” said Bert, “‘Ere, Tom, hand me my sage. Quick, now. We ain’t got much long left.”

Grumbling, Tom began rummaging in a large, brown sack.

Bert sat him down on one of the upturned logs near the fire. Bilbo held his hands up to the flames to warm them. It was a little chilly out. Just as Bert was about to sprinkle a few herbs into his hair, thirteen dwarves burst through the trees, screaming bloody murder. He resisted the urge to put his head in his hands.

“Ere! He  _ is _ a dwarf!” Bill shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Bilbo.

Kili, teeth bared and bow strung, drew up to his full height, “Let Mr Boggins go!”

“And the ponies.” whispered Ori, clutching an axe to his chest.

“And the ponies!” said Kili hurriedly.

Thorin, eyes burning, walked forward and said with deadly intensity, “Flee, trolls, or die.”

Tom growled, low in his chest.

“Well, that’s nice, innit.” said Bert, waving his spoon in the air, “Trying to sit down for a meal and every which pest comes crawlin’ in!”

Bofur yelled to him, eyes wide, “Bilbo, run!”

Bilbo opened his mouth to speak but Bill snatched him up before he could get out a sound, “That’s not fair! He said we could eat ‘im!”

“Really, now!” shouted Bilbo with exasperation. Then, gasped. Bill was squeezing a little too tight. In the corner of his eye, a grey wisp darted behind a boulder.

Kili drew back his arrow and released it, with ferocious precision, into Bill’s left eye. Screaming, Bill stumbled back and threw Bilbo toward the dwarves.

Thorin rushed forward and caught Bilbo, he would’ve fallen otherwise. One axe-holding hand in the small of his back and one on his neck.

“S'alright, Bill. Let’s ‘av  _ their _ eyes.” said Tom, clenching his fists. Bert opened his mouth in a roar. And it stuck there.

“Let the dawn take you all!”

Sunlight poured into the clearing, like a yellow stream emerging from a large crack in the boulder. Thorin released him. Bilbo panted, looking at the stone trolls.

“Do you,” came a quiet, deadly voice behind him, “have a death wish, halfling?”

How much had Kili and Fili heard? How much had they all heard?

“I - no.” Bilbo stuttered. The rest of the Company had started celebrating at Gandalf’s arrival but were quiet now, watching.

“You should have alerted me the moment you found the ponies missing. If I cannot trust you to not be swayed into antagonising trolls by my fool nephews, what good are you? And if you cannot burgle back a few ponies, what use are you against a dragon?”

Bilbo’s eyes darted to the boys who hung their heads, “I- I assure you, it was my own decision -”.

Thorin turned and stalked away. The rest of them mulled about until someone mentioned a troll hoard, nearly falling over each other to get first pass at the loot.

“Sorry, Bilbo.” said Kili.

“It’s alright, boys. I was rather impulsive.”

“Rather  _ brilliant _ ,” said Fili, starting to grin secretly, “We did try to tell Uncle you were stalling for time but he wouldn’t listen.”

Bilbo shrugged and smiled, “Oh, well. At least I’m not fired.”

“No, that’ll come in the Misty Mountains.” said Bofur cheerfully as he passed, hands full of gold coins.

Bilbo raised his eyebrows at him.

“Get it? Because dragons breathe fire.”

“No, I get it.”

* * *

Bilbo sat by a stream. The Company would want to move on soon and he was taking the opportunity to rinse a little troll-smell out of his clothes. It was a sunny, warm morning so he didn’t have to wait too long for them to dry. But, still, clothed, he sat, turning Sting over in his hands. He didn’t really want to be with the dwarves right now. Especially Thorin. He’d quite forgotten how much it hurt to be a stranger to his friends. The feeling had dulled somewhat but returned full-force, with biting sharpness, when Thorin had shouted at him.

But Thorin had rushed forward to catch him when he fell. He hadn’t even been that far in the air. He wouldn’t have been hurt. It was a reflex, Bilbo knew, or the dwarf was too bothersomely heroic for his own good. Still though, Bilbo couldn’t get the feeling of Thorin’s hands out of his head. With the way he fell, Thorin could have caught him with one hand, steadied his back so he wouldn’t collapse to the ground. But Thorin had put a hand on his neck so it wouldn’t wrench with the momentum, saving him the pain. Had it been a conscious decision? In that time frame, unlikely. But what did it speak of unconsciously? 

Bilbo was an old fool who thought too much.

He didn’t realise he was crying a little bit until his blackbird landed on his shoulder and pecked his cheek. He petted her absently.

A wrinkle on dead leaves caught his attention. He whipped back. Bifur stood there hesitantly.

“Oh! Sorry. Hello, Master Bifur.”

Coming closer, Bifur gestured to the tear tracks drying on Bilbo’s face. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. Really.”

Bifur stared at him for a moment before nodding and turning back. Bilbo looked to the bird in commiseration. It cooed sympathetically. He was just about to gather his things and head back to camp when Bifur reappeared, clutching a handful of bright, spiney goldenrod (encouragement, support, growth). The dwarf held them out to Bilbo, smiling proudly.

“Thank you!” Bilbo took them, touched, “But you - do you know flower meanings?”

Bifur nodded, saying something and blushing.

“But, how? I gather dwarves aren’t very concerned with flowers?”

Bifur nodded, tilting his head. He looked the kind of embarrassed that could only mean a past romantic encounter.

“You!” Bilbo said, “And a hobbit!”

Bifur grinned, gesturing.

“Oh, no! Don’t tell me any more, we’re probably related.” 

Laughing, Bifur gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Bilbo arranged the flowers carefully in his pocket and followed the dwarf back to camp.


	5. Buttercup

Bilbo has a pleasant morning, all things considered. With half the Company following Thorin’s example and ignoring him (with the exception of the Ur brothers and the younger ones), he’d had a blissfully quiet breakfast of dried fish and toasted nuts, munched in the crisp sunrise. Second breakfast had been undertaken, as it always was, alone and on the road - honey slathered seeded bread had Nori shooting him jealous looks all the way along the steep dirt path to the break of the woods. In fact, Bilbo was still thinking of the chewy, salted pork he’d eaten with wild berries for elevenses when Radagast burst through the trees shouting madly about thieves and fire and murder. As the dwarves stared enraptured at the brown wizard, Bilbo surreptitiously moved to the ponies, gathering up the reins of a few of them. The panic-flap of chickadees and sparrows and flycatchers reached Bilbo’s ears before the high, whining howl in the distance did.

“Wargs,” said Thorin, through teeth clenched in a grimace.

Just then, the scout warg - a rakish, ghoulish thing with grey fur and a twisted back leg - came up over the hill at a sprint toward them. Dwalin met it, cleaving its head from its shoulders in one, wet thump. It’s head fell to the dirt, soaking the grass in blood, jaws stuck in an eternal gasp. The ponies roiled and bucked against Bilbo’s hold. Most galloped off but Bilbo kept a firm grip of four. That was, until, another skeletal warg, with protruding ribs and brown-dry blood on it’s muzzle, hovered on a ledge above Ori, shifting into a pounce. Bilbo let the ponies go - which they did - and withdrew Sting. It had, of course, not earned its name yet. It may be more aptly named Slice or Cut in this life, for that is what Bilbo did with it. 

Barely thinking, he charged forward and the warg’s attention shifted to him. It drew it’s muzzle back in a wild, livid grin and Bilbo felt himself grin back, just briefly and privately, as they leaped toward each other. Just as it’s jaws were about to close on the tip of his nose, Bilbo wrenched himself  _ back _ \- horizontal. The warg kept sailing over, no time to even contemplate the abrupt change before it’s intestines spilled out of its belly, pulled out by gravity and Bilbo’s sword. It slammed to the floor, face-first and then toppled over itself, guts steaming. The hot rush of quite a lot of blood soaked his blade, hair, ran down his fingers. Bilbo skidded on his heels and twisted into a crouch and then to a stand. Ori was staring at him.

“Come on!” Bilbo shouted, pulling Ori by his sleeve.

They ran as a group, Gandalf at the lead. Bilbo spared a thought for his little blackbird. She’d been off hunting when Radagast had arrived. Bilbo hoped she had managed to stay out of view of the orcs, many of whom hunted for sport - a terrible crime as far as hobbits were concerned - and wouldn’t think twice of sparing a few arrows to cut a beautiful song short. He didn’t know how far they ran (a mile or two?) or how fast, all Bilbo thought about was the thump of his bare feet and the sharp wind on his face and the beat of his heart. Bifur was at his left, Bofur at his right, screeching orcs at their tail. It was no use, though. The wargs and their riders began to surround them, pacing back and forth to form an unbroken ring. He and the dwarves stood facing outward, weapons drawn, teeth bared.

“Where is Gandalf?” shouted Kili over the din, releasing an arrow, aiming true.

“He has abandoned us!” Dwalin growled.

Bifur moved in front of Bilbo, pushing him inside their makeshift circle. He glared at the dwarf but Bifur just shrugged and grinned, passing his axe casually from hand to hand, watching the nearest orc with sharp eyes.

“Hold your ground” said Thorin, blinding a warg that had gotten too brave. It screamed and retreated back. The orc abandoned it, snarling and rearing back its mace above its head. Bilbo knew that Thorin was about to call for them to attack when - 

“This way, you fools!”

Breathing a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t have to pretend to ‘find’ the passage, Bilbo was one of the first to move to the rock formation and slide down the crevice, rolling out of the way so Bombur wouldn’t crush him. Soon, they were all in the cave, staring up at the entrance anxiously. Then, a horn sounded. They waited until an orc corpse slid down the crack, head stuck with a golden, slender arrow.

“Elves,” spat Thorin.

Bilbo refrained from rolling his eyes. Barely. 

Quieter now. Calmer. They began the long trek through the caves. Bilbo stumbled quite a few times but the dwarves seemed to know instinctively where the rocks bent and jutted. In the dark places, their eyes glowed a little. Bilbo was reminded of holding buttercups (humility, neatness, charm) to his chin with the other fauntlings to see the warm, yellow reflection. They walked for hours, not that there was much light to tell the passage of time, until the passage began to widen and warm sun streamed in.

At the mouth of the cave, his blackbird was waiting patiently.

“That’s odd,” Ori whispered to him, “I wonder how she knew.”

Bilbo just smiled, holding out his hand so she could perch on his finger.

“- In the Common Tongue, it is known by another name.”

Bilbo breathed in the familiar mossy air, said, “Rivendell.”

* * *

“Quite impressive work today, my friend.”

Bilbo fiddled with his pipe, “Thanks. You too.”

Gandalf leaned on his staff from where he was seated, tilting his head thoughtfully, “I think you may be the only hobbit to have ever felled a warg. You truly are Belladonna’s son.”

As much as Bilbo enjoyed reminiscing about his mother, and Gandalf did have some wonderful stories about their adventures with the elves, he wanted to talk to someone who was a little less suspicious and shrewd than Gandalf (although, not by much).

“You know, Gandalf, I overheard Lord Elrond asking one of the elves not to bring out the old chestnut oak.”

Gandalf whipped his head to the elf at the head table, narrowing his eyes, “The twenty nine hundred?”

Bilbo nodded, “Oh, yes, I presume so.”

“Do excuse me, Bilbo.” 

The wizard went, weaving in between very drunk dwarves and a few tipsy elves studying the newcomers like they were specimens under a magnifying glass. Bilbo slid off the chair, quite a drop for a hobbit with two glasses of mead in him, and scanned the company. He was hard to locate among the dwarves, who appeared to have begun some sort of fighting ring and were loudly placing bets on Nori versus Dwalin, but Bilbo spotted him. Feeling full and flushed, Bilbo tottered over to one of his oldest friends.

“Hello, Balin,” he smiled

“Bilbo!” he said congenially, cheeks red. That was good. Maybe he wouldn’t remember this conversation.

He slid on to the bench beside him, drumming his fingers on the table. Somewhere, the dwarves cheered, “Balin, odd question, what exactly  _ is _ the Arkenstone?”

“Well, it’s a gem, lad,” Balin waved his tankard in the air, “The best one we’ve got, I should think. From deep in the Misty Mountains.”

Nod, casual, “Ah, who discovered it?”

“That would’ve been Dolar son of Bolar.” Balin scratched his beard, “Aye, I never thought much of the lad, I’m ashamed to say. But he lived out the rest of his days in the riches granted to him by the King after he found the gem.”

Interesting. “Did anyone else witness the discovery?”

“No, no, no. He gave it straight to the King, for fear that another dwarf may be overcome with greed and steal it.” Balin shook his head, “To tell you the truth, laddie, I’d have wagered good money on Dolar himself nabbing the thing. He wasn’t the most honourable dwarf.”

Bilbo nodded.

Suddenly, Balin slammed his drink down, tears beading in the corners of his eyes, “Ach! I should nae speak ill of the dead.”

Bilbo patted his back sympathetically. Balin always was a tearful drunk. “Was it Smaug who killed him?”

“No. Poison. He was found with his lips blue and eyes bulgin’ not a week after he’d found the Arkenstone”

“Ah. The rest of his days were not too many, then.”

“No doubt, someone got jealous of his riches and thought to steal them. Strange though, because not a single jewel was found missing from his chambers.”

Bilbo blinked. Or perhaps Dolar had been poisoned for some other reason. To keep his mouth shut.

Bilbo had often wondered what was it about a gem found under a mountain, a pretty one admittedly, that could possibly drive a dwarf insane with greed. A trinket that could change the way you think and behave and cause you to prize it above all others. The Elves and the Men had said it was something in particular about dwarves, that the lust for treasure was something selfish and ingrained. But Bilbo had known Thorin. Briefly and shallowly, yes, but Bilbo had known him.

Perhaps, thought Bilbo, the Arkenstone wasn’t merely a stone after all but merely a vessel for something far more sinister.

“Balin, what do you know about the Dwarven Rings of Power?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we said fuck tolkien's canon


End file.
